


Galão

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Breastfeeding, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Ownership, PWP, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil opens Elrond’s eyes to another use for Lindir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galão

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Though Thranduil adapts little when he visits Imladris, he expects full cooperation when Elrond comes to him. Elrond arrives with only a small delegation—Glorfindel, Lindir, and Elladan—Erestor, Elrohir and Arwen left in charge of their home. They’re met at the gate and guided back to Thranduil’s throne, asked to pay their respects, and only then brought to dinner. It’s been a long ride, yet Glorfindel and Elladan still wish to ride off to meet with Legolas on his hunt. Feren guides them to the dining hall, and Galion brings them wine.

Usually, Elrond plans to come on festivals, giving special reasons to bring his children abroad, but that only leads to large feasts and far too much drinking. The Woodland Realm has very different customs than the more elegant ways with which Elrond conducts his lands. He’s surprised, even arriving now on no special date, to be seated at a small, square table, in an intimate room with only two seats at the table, both on the same side. Lindir stands wordlessly behind Elrond, as he does of his own volition whenever a formal event occurs, but Feren leaves. 

Thranduil takes a long sip of his wine, Galion arrives again with a large dish of pastries and a string of elves bearing other plates behind him, and Feren returns with a small, honey-haired elf that Elrond has to search his memory for—Meludir, he thinks. Meludir stands behind Thranduil, drawing a small glance from Lindir, and Elrond waits for his host’s cue to begin eating.

It’s never his first preference to eat without his servants—he sees no reason Lindir must wait. But Thranduil lifts his fork to his salad without offering Meludir any, and Elrond knows that inviting Lindir to sit with them would only draw embarrassment from Lindir and an argument from Thranduil. 

So Elrond eats as well, avoiding the wine and wondering why there are four glasses on the table instead of two. 

“You have not brought Aragorn, I see,” Thranduil comments, halfway into his first dish. He’s spoken before in letters of wishing Legolas had a chance to meet Aragorn, though he’s yet to give a good reason why. So far, their paths haven’t crossed.

“He is abroad,” Elrond answers. It earns him a snort—Elrond’s answer is always the same. But it’s the truth. It was hard enough to coordinate with Elladan, yet alone his even more roguish stepchild. Because it’s too early to invoke Thranduil’s wrath, Elrond tries to appease him with an open, “Perhaps on the next visit.”

“Perhaps,” Thranduil repeats, but the way he quickly downs more wine shows that he isn’t pleased. In Elrond’s experience, Thranduil can reach displeasure quite easily.

They continue on in something of an awkward silence. This trip is half for his companions’ recreation and half for political reasons, but as those companions are elsewhere and there’s no point discussing political matters when Thranduil’s halfway to intoxicated, Elrond has little to say. When he’s finished with the bulk of his meal—having politely sampled each dish laid out before them—he plucks a few chocolate-covered fruit slices onto his plate for dessert. Merely for conversation, he notes, “Your kitchen is to be commended.”

“Yes,” Thranduil agrees around a chocolate-dipped pastry. “And now that you have finally come without the hectic preparations of a festival, and we are able to dine in my private chambers without my subjects released to their own celebrations, we can enjoy our drinks fresh.”

Finally glancing sideways at Thranduil, Elrond lifts a brow. “And the other times, the wine was not?”

Thranduil’s face splits with a mocking smirk, though Elrond hadn’t intended to be funny. “You never had good taste in wine, Elrond, but I thought even you knew that it grew better with age. I was not referring to wine.”

Elrond glances at the empty glass that sits next to his red-filled one. Other than the wine bottle, there are no other drinks on the table. 

He spares Thranduil a quizzical look, only for Thranduil’s eyebrows to rise. He scoffs, “And here I had thought you made no reference to such delights because you always insisted on inviting minstrels and all your lower advisors to our feasts in Imladris. Do you mean to tell me that you do not partake in fresh milk at all?”

“Fresh milk?” Elrond asks. He can’t picture Thranduil going himself to milk a cow. If Meludir is meant to fetch it only the second Thranduil asks, the Woodland Realm has become far more ridiculous than Elrond’s given it credit for.

But Thranduil does draw his empty glass closer and turn to gesture at Meludir. Meludir comes forward instantly, his youthful face clearly trying hard to stifle his delight. He walks not towards the door but to Thranduil’s side, and he places both delicate hands on Thranduil’s broader shoulders.

Then he hikes himself up, right into Thranduil’s lap. He spreads his legs around Thranduil thighs and lifts high on his knees, shoulders back and chest arched forward. Elrond is supremely confused, more so when Thranduil begins to unfasten the corseted lacing that binds Meludir’s emerald robes together. Thranduil opens those robes right to Meludir’s midsection, then sweeps the sleeves down Meludir’s shoulders, leaving the fabric to pool heavily around Meludir’s waist. A strip of white is wrapped several times around Meludir’s chest, and it’s only when Thranduil begins to undo this that Elrond understands. 

Meludir is motionless throughout the process, though his head tosses back as the last of the binding is removed. His lashes flutter, rosy lips slightly parted. Thranduil brings the glass around his body to hold just beneath one small, plush breast. The two peaks rise up as Meludir arches further forward, his pink nipples already pebbled. “You are aware, I assume,” Thranduil purrs, his thumb rolling around one nub, hardening it further, “that in their prime, certain elves are able to feed, not only when they have new young, but any time they should choose? The process can be enhanced with certain herbs.” Thranduil’s thumb presses down in the middle, and Meludir bites his bottom lip. Thranduil glances up at him to add, “Which I assume my livestock has been faithfully taking.”

Meludir, who seems to have absolutely no issue with being called ‘livestock,’ murmurs breathlessly, “Of course, my king. I take everything you ask me to.” Thranduil’s smile is thin; clearly, he expected to hear nothing less.

Elrond is still in a numb shock. He was aware of the condition, of course, but never thought to use Elven milk for _himself_. Yet Thranduil speaks of it as though it’s a perfectly common practice. He kneads Meludir’s breast with a practiced skill, eliciting only barely-withheld mewling noises. When Thranduil finally pinches Meludir’s nipple, only to hold his glass over it, Meludir gasps like he’s near his own finish line. Sometimes it baffles Elrond how truly devoted all of Thranduil’s subjects seem.

Thranduil casually squeezes and tugs at Meludir’s nipple until the glass is nearly half full, and then Thranduil simply switches to the other side, repeating the process. Meludir’s chest is left flushed raw and glistening wetly. It amazes Elrond how far the glass fills, and a single thought worms through Elrond’s frozen mind—which herbs, exactly, do that?

Thranduil stops only when his glass is full. Then he lifts it to his mouth to take a long drink. Meludir dreamily stares at his king through half-lidded, lust-hazed eyes. He smiles happily when Thranduil goes in for a second sip, clearly approving.

After, Thranduil sets his glass on the table and turns to glance between himself and Elrond, bidding Lindir, “You. Fetch one of your delegation that can produce milk, and if none can, then you are to go to my kitchens, ask—”

But he doesn’t get to finish. Lindir, to Elrond’s complete shock, cuts Thranduil off to quickly say, “I can.” It takes him a second to remember to add, “M... my lord.” Thranduil quirks a brow but doesn’t comment on Lindir’s interruption, instead beckoning him forward with one finger.

Lindir comes obediently to Elrond’s side, but he hesitates there, as though waiting for Elrond’s permission, yet Elrond’s still too paralyzed to give it. Thranduil orders, “Well, what are you waiting for? Mount your master.” That seems to decide it for Lindir; he’s never disobeyed a lord’s command in his life. 

He tosses one leg over Elrond’s chair, and just like that, Lindir’s sitting in Elrond’s lap. Lindir’s soft thighs spread around him, robes pulled taut, weight a tad heavy but not overly so. Lindir keeps his hands at his sides, clearly daring no more.

Thranduil makes a snorting noise. Elrond’s sure he’s rolled his eyes at the propriety of Imladris elves. They’re just close enough that Thranduil can reach over to yank Lindir’s collar right open—the snaps burst apart. Lindir squeaks and closes his eyes, shoulders hunching as Thranduil pulls his robes open all the way down to his stomach. The thick blue fabric topples down around his lap, the same binding that held Meludir’s chest down stretching across Lindir’s. Elrond knew of this, somewhere in the back of his mind—he’s a healer and knows of all his subjects—but he sees Lindir on a daily basis and had somehow forgotten. Now Lindir sits rigidly before him as Thranduil skillfully tears away his coverings. When the bandage falls free, Lindir’s breasts spill out. They’re larger than Meludir’s, fuller, prettily round, but still definitely on the small side. Once they’re bared to him, Elrond has difficulty looking away from them. Both of Lindir’s dusty-rose nipples are slightly erect already, though the room is hardly cold. 

“Drink,” Thranduil insists, breaking through Elrond’s reverie. “He exists to please you—it would be foolish to waste such a vital part of his body.”

He absolutely does _not_ exist for that. But Lindir’s opened his eyes again—only to turn away—and though he can’t seem to meet Elrond’s eyes, the eagerness is plain on his face. Elrond can’t understand why Lindir so readily volunteered for this treatment. He isn’t Meludir. He’s always been loyal to his lord, but he’s never been treated as an animal, and he’s always struck Elrond as reserved, almost conservative. Now he blushes so beautifully and arches forward, thrusting his breasts toward Elrond as though he _wants_ to be milked. In his peripherals, Elrond can see Thranduil enjoying another drink.

When Elrond makes no move to continue, Thranduil’s hand snakes in again to enclose around Lindir’s chest. Thranduil rubs idly over both, then retreats to the closest, and gives it such a firm squeeze that Lindir cries out. A flare of annoyance surges into Elrond, and it takes him a moment to realize what it is— _jealousy._ He’s always enjoyed his attendant, and Lindir’s always been exclusively _his_. Now Thranduil plays with Lindir’s chest like they’ve been lovers for an age.

Lindir keeps looking away while Thranduil kneads his flesh. He’s breathing hard but perfectly still, compliant. When Thranduil moves down to Lindir’s nipple, it takes more coaxing than it did with Meludir’s for the nub to fully harden. Thranduil tugs lightly at it, twists it minimally around, and pinches it, but nothing happens beyond Lindir’s breath hitching. Elrond wants to stop it but can’t seem to move. He’s warring with himself—he wants to take Lindir for his own, but he still doesn’t think it’s right. Finally, a tiny, white bead forms at Lindir’s nipple, and Thranduil gives the area a final squeeze to make it dribble out. Elrond watches the thin river trickle down the slope of Lindir’s breast with rapt attention.

“You may need to employ a bit of suction,” Thranduil muses, “if we are not to be here all night. I will make sure that Feren instructs him on the proper herbs before he leaves.”

 _Suction_. It takes great effort to bring his eyes back up to Lindir’s face. Elrond’s seen Lindir in nearly every state, and yet he’s never seen Lindir look so _desirable._ Lindir’s face is completely flushed, eyes so dilated that there’s nearly nothing left of his irises, lashes drooping and lips parted. He looks utterly desperate, and Elrond can’t help but wonder, hope, if that’s desperation for _him_.

What finally decides it for him is Thranduil drawling, “If you will not partake, I can always send for Legolas. I am sure he will be happy to taste the exotic milk of Imladris.”

Lindir flinches. The desperation in his eyes increases tenfold. Elrond was under the impression that Lindir liked Legolas well enough, but now he looks worried at the thought of someone else tasting him. Why he was so open for Elrond to, Elrond has no idea.

Elrond does know that he doesn’t want to share Lindir. He’s never been in the position before where it was even an option. In a slow, still hesitant movement, Elrond bends forward.

Full of mingled shame and _want_ , Elrond presses his tongue against the stray trail of milk. It’s only a small taste, and most of what he gets is Lindir’s mild, slightly salty skin, but the sensation is still thrilling. He drags his tongue up around the curve of Lindir’s breast, feeling the weight of it on his tongue, and finally comes to the hardened nub in the middle. He’d meant to pull away again, settling for only that one drink to appease his host, but he finds himself running his tongue around Lindir’s nipple. Then Elrond’s lapping away at it, and he can hear Lindir gasp away a distinct _moan_ above him.

Lindir’s skin is burning hot. Elrond slowly licks his way across to the other nipple, and on his way, he reaches down to find Lindir’s wrists. They feel so small, frail, in his larger fingers, and it’s easy to guide them to his shoulders. Lindir touches him tentatively at first, then digs in as Elrond flattens his tongue over Lindir’s nipple. He wraps his arms around Lindir’s waist, drawing Lindir all the closer. Lindir’s body trembles against him. 

A part of Elrond doesn’t feel right doing this with an audience, but the rest of him forgets Thranduil entirely—it was presented casually, but it feels so _erotic_ , made all the hotter by Lindir’s faint whimpering and writhing. Lindir’s fingers slip into Elrond’s hair, cradling the back of his head, and Elrond’s struck with the want to _taste every part of Lindir’s body._

He settles for opening his mouth around one nipple, latching on, and _sucking_. Lindir instantly cries out, hips bucking forward, and Elrond sucks all the harder for it. One hand reaches up to squeeze Lindir’s breast. Despite the lack of herbs, a rush of warm milk pours into Elrond’s mouth. The taste is unexpectedly exquisite—rich, creamy, even a little sweet: easily the most delicious thing Elrond’s had in ages. It surpasses everything Thranduil’s chefs prepared by leaps and bounds, made all the better that it’s fresh from _Lindir’s_ willing body. Elrond gulps it down, drinking all he can with surprising greed. He’s distantly aware of the sick, wet squelching noises his mouth is making around Lindir’s abused nipple, but Lindir’s wanton noises drown them out. 

Only when the flow has nearly come to a stop does Elrond manage to pull away, trailing a thin string of saliva with him. Lindir’s breast is now flushed a bright pink and wet in a distinct circle. Elrond gives it a light, almost apologetic lick, before lapping his way over to the other side. Somewhere in the background, Thranduil chuckles, “What an eager thing he is.”

If Elrond weren’t so distracted, he would insist that Lindir’s not a ‘thing.’ But his mouth is busy latching onto Lindir’s other nipple. It surrenders just as easily, and he drinks it just as hungrily. Lindir is now gently grinding into Elrond’s body, whining nonstop, his fingers fully embedded in Elrond’s hair. Elrond can’t help but wish that all of Lindir’s robes weren’t still in the way around his lap—Elrond can’t quite feel the hump of his ass and would desperately like to, not to mention feel between his legs. Elrond’s shamefully hard but somehow manages not to buck up into Lindir, instead focused on drinking everything Lindir has to offer. 

Elrond’s bizarrely saddened when there’s nothing left, even though he’s past full. He wants to keep tonguing Lindir’s breasts, but the poor things look so thoroughly used-raw that he holds himself back. Elrond experiences a faint tinge of guilt—Lindir will doubtless be very sore when he binds himself back up and dons his chafing robes. Yet there’s no regret on Lindir’s face. He looks completely dizzy and can’t seem to stop shaking and panting. He does look like he’s been reduced to an animal, though not one simply being milked. 

Elrond begrudgingly looks away from Lindir when Thranduil sighs, “The only trouble with this one is he always grows wet when I refill my glass.” Meludir smiles sheepishly. His chest now looks as over-used as Lindir’s, indicating that Thranduil enjoyed himself while Elrond was busy. Despite Thranduil’s early dispassion, he looks at Meludir fondly, adding, “And what kind of king would I be if I left my subjects unsatisfied?” 

Meludir seems to know what that means, because he scrambles off Thranduil’s lap, clutching his disheveled robes around himself without bothering to properly fasten them again, his bindings draped over one arm. Thranduil stands as well, looking impressively unaffected, and bids Elrond, “Good night, my friend. I trust you can find your own way to your rooms.”

Elrond doesn’t have the wherewithal to say anything. He watches Thranduil leave, an arm around Meludir, and then they’re alone.

And Lindir speaks for the first time since dinner started, murmuring quietly, “I... I am wet too, my lord.”

Elrond guessed as much. Lindir bites his lips nervously, hope flickering in his lust-clouded eyes. He finally stills his hips, though his entire body still seems to be _pleading_ with Elrond. How Elrond could’ve missed this want for so many years, he has no idea. It suddenly seems such a waste, all that time he’s spent with Lindir by his side, occasionally admiring but never thinking to _take_ his lovely assistant. 

It takes great effort to lift the bandage that covered Lindir’s beautiful chest. Lindir dizzily helps tie it again, though looser, Elrond thinks, than before. The robes, Elrond also fastens, even smoothing down, until Lindir looks—at least, from the face down—put together. When he pats Lindir’s hip, Lindir climbs obediently off his lap.

Fortunately, Elrond’s robes hide the evidence of just how difficult stopping this is for him. At least, stopping it for now. He looks into Lindir’s eyes and nods, then carefully takes Lindir’s hand in his. 

He tugs Lindir by that to his guest quarters, unsure which of them is more excited for the evening to continue.


End file.
